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In February, 1844, Nicholas Biddle, the great financier, died. Something that Bryant wrote roused Hone's wrath. Here is his comment of February 28: "Bryant, the editor of the Evening Post, in an article of his day, virulent and malignant as are usually the streams which flow from that polluted source, says that Mr.
But, whatever his intentions, it was apparently no part of Hone's plan to allow himself to be conciliated at that stage, for, after the briefest pause, he bowed abruptly and stepped aside. And Nina Perceval went humbly away, as befitted one who had played a desperate game, and had been outwitted by the adversary she had dared to despise.
"You played superbly." "Major Hone excels in all games, I believe," said Mrs. Perceval. "He seems to possess the secret of success." She spoke with obvious indifference; yet an odd look flashed across Hone's brown face at the words. He almost winced. But he was quick to reply. "The secret of success," he said, "is to know how to make the best of a beating." He was still smiling as he spoke.
I determined, if possible, to put a stop to such terrible punishments for such a crime, and made a sketch of the above note, and then an etching of it. Mr. Hone published it, and it created a sensation. The Directors of the Bank of England were exceedingly wroth. The crowd around Hone's shop in Ludgate Hill was so great that the Lord Mayor had to send the police to clear the street.
He went with her, for she would not be denied, and in a few seconds they emerged into a narrow clearing in the jungle in which stood the ruin of a small domed temple. Nina Perceval was shaking all over in a positive frenzy of fear, and clinging fast to Hone's arm. "What was it?" he asked her, trying gently to disengage himself. "Was it a snake that scared you?" She shuddered violently.
Doubtless that was his intention, or he could not have looked so undismayed. So ran the tide of gossip and surmise. And in Hone's pocket lay the twisted note which the woman he loved had left behind the note which he had read with an unmoved countenance under a host of watching eyes. "Good-bye, St. Patrick! It has been an amusing game, has it not? Do you remember how you beat me once long ago?
Knight's, in Sweeting's Alley; Fairburn's, in a court off Ludgate Hill; Hone's, in Fleet Street bright, enchanted palaces, which George Cruikshank used to people with grinning, fantastical imps, and merry, harmless sprites, where are they?
There is no tentative, undecisive brushwork, such as we often see in the subtle search for the unrevealed, which makes or mars Mr. Yeats' work. He is at home in his peculiar world, while the other is always seeking for it. "A Sunset on Malahide Sands" shows a greater intensity than is usual even in Mr. Hone's work. There is something thrilling in this twilight trembling over the deserted world.
He saw his face of concern in the moonlight. He pulled himself together. "I was coming to warn you. This infernal jungle is full of snakes. We've had to run for it, and leave the boat behind." "Great Scotland! And Mrs. Perceval?" Again Hone's eyes sought the white face on his arm. "No, she isn't hurt. It's just a faint. Pull up close, and I'll hand her down to you!"
When it was over, and the bridge players were established on the veranda, he drifted off to the smoking-room in an aimless, inconsequent fashion, and his hostess and accomplice saw him no more. She would have given a good deal to have witnessed his subsequent movements, but she would have been considerably disappointed had she done so, for Hone's methods were disconcertingly direct.
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